


The Beautiful Laundrette

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was initially supposed to be part of a much longer story, but since it makes a complete ficlet on its own, and everyone who voted in the poll was fine with WIPs, I'm posting it here.  Hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Beautiful Laundrette

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially supposed to be part of a much longer story, but since it makes a complete ficlet on its own, and everyone who voted in the poll was fine with WIPs, I'm posting it here. Hope you enjoy.

  
He takes one last drag from his cigarette on the way in the door of the laundrette, the great hulking bag he bought at the Army and Navy over his arm and a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the cheapest place he knows in his other hand. He drains the coffee and stubs out the cigarette in the cup, earning a disdainful glare from the woman sitting in a chair near the door, reading _Cosmopolitan_ and drinking Starbucks.

Andy glares back and tosses his cup in the bin used for dryer lint; he checks the machines and finds one empty with no "Out of Order sign"; his lucky day apparently. Monday morning isn't his favourite time to do laundry, but he's been putting it off for weeks and passengers have been giving him looks in the rear view mirror. It doesn't bother him that he smells, but he doesn't want any complaints, and he has Monday mornings off. He pours the washing powder from the bag he's already measured a cup of the stuff into and loads his laundry into the machine. Deposits his change, pushes the button, and… nothing.

"Bollocksing hell," he mutters under his breath, and the woman's head whips around, her eyes nearly black and very hard. He'd like to step on her toes with his boot, as hard as he can, but he reigns in the urge and sighs, dumping the laundry that he's so carefully crammed into the machine back into his bag. He peers down the hole where he's dumped his powder, but there's no way to retrieve it. He gives the woman and her gadgillion litre bottle of Daz a hopeful look, much as it pains him to do so, but she pretends not to pay attention. No way is he going to ask, so he sighs and turns towards the exit. Punters will have to deal.

"Lend you some washing powder, mate?"

He turns towards the voice, gruff and Northern, but the eyes sympathetic. The man is slouched against the row of washers by the window, on the far side, the name of the laundrette painted in reverse bright pink lettering over his shoulder. He nods with his chin at the bright green box of powder next to his hip, and Andy smiles gratefully.

"Ta. Is there a…?"

"This one works, I'm fairly certain."

Andy nods and lugs his bag over to the washer next to the one the bloke's leaning against and loads in again. The other man helpfully pours the right amount of powder into the chute, measuring it out with a little plastic scoop—slightly anal retentive, but generous—and Andy sticks another handful of coins in. The machine whirs to life, and Andy breathes out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," he says again, and the man smiles.

"Not a problem. Bloody things are always on the blink. I'm Sean," he adds, extending a hand.

"Andy."

They stand in amicable silence for a moment, the loud whir-and-thud of the machines broken only by the sound of the woman in the corner slurping Frappacino through her straw and flipping the pages of her magazine.

Andy leans against the washer behind him, slightly warmer than the surrounding air, and jams his thumbs in his pockets. He looks down at his boots, half-obscured by the now-empty bag puddled on the floor at his feet, and then his eyes shift left, taking in Sean's footwear. Good, sturdy boots, the kinds that lace all the way up. Brown and obviously well worn, with splatters of white paint on them. He wonders if the man is in construction. Doesn't look like an artist.

The woman's mobile rings, a truly obnoxious polyphonic symphony, and she gives them a glare as she leaves, as if it were they who caused the interruption, or perhaps afraid they'll steal her knickers if she leaves the building for longer than a minute.

"Bet she doesn't even know who composed that," Andy mutters under his breath, and Sean laughs surprisingly loud. Andy looks up and notices the way Sean's skin crinkles around his eyes, and though you're not supposed to notice such a thing, not in another bloke at least, it makes him smile.

"It's Mussorgsky," Sean says, and Andy nods.

"Aye. I know."

Sean looks a bit surprised. "You like music?" he asks, and Andy isn't sure why he likes the way vowels sound so much in the other man's accent at this moment. He's never had a thing for Sheffield before.

"My mum played the piano," Andy explains.

Sean nods. "Mine as well."

The woman comes back then, and both Andy and Sean give her a pre-emptive glare before she can do it again. Andy has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Sean has comedic timing, at least; he'll give him that.

Another fifteen minutes pass and Andy wishes he had something to read, if only to give him something to do with his hands. Instead he keeps them in his pockets, watches a dryer in front of him spin. He tries to make out the contents through the glass hole in the door, see if there's anything racy in there. He thinks he catches a blur of leopard-print, but it's hard to identify. A few minutes later a young, slightly plump Pakistani woman comes in and opens the dryer, takes her things out. Andy nods politely and she shuffles away, leaving his eyes unoccupied.

Sean's dryer dings to a stop a few minutes later and he folds his things on top of the washers, sorting into piles by type and apparently colour, as well. There are a few blue-grey work shirts with Sean's name stitched on the front where a pocket would normally be, along with matching trousers. There are some rugby jerseys and shorts, white t-shirts, a couple miscellaneous nicer shirts, a pair of jeans, and two jumpers. There are about sixteen pairs of identical navy blue socks and a number of pairs of white cotton pants. Andy is good at watching without looking like he's watching, and so he does that as Sean folds everything, even the t-shirts. When he finishes folding, he loads them all into a white plastic hamper, sets the box of washing powder on top, and lifts the whole thing up onto his shoulder. He turns to Andy again and smiles.

"See you around, then."

"Aye," Andy replies. "Thanks again for the washing powder."

Sean smiles and is gone, and Andy hops on top of the washing machine to wait.


End file.
